Forgotten
by reddochu
Summary: Standing alone in front of a large mural, it feels as though Ib's forgotten something- but what? Just what has she forgotten? Based on the Forgotten Portrait ending.


Crimson eyes rapidly flutter open, and the girl named "Ib" stares, wide-eyed, at the blank white wall in front of her. Her mind feels heavy and leaden, as though she's just emerged from a long dream, but she can't remember falling asleep- she can't even remember what she was doing. It's puzzling, to say the least, because although her memories flow together almost seamlessly, it feels as though she's forgotten something- but what? Just _what_ has she forgotten? She remembers all of the artwork in the museum with clarity, just as she does the events since her arrival at the exhibit. Yes, she remembers all of it-

...Except she can't at all remember what painting is behind her now. The realization is unnerving, because every part of her mind is screaming at her that she knows what's behind her, knows more about it than any other person alive- but she _doesn't_. Slowly, carefully (because she does not know why, but she is afraid), Ib turns to face the enigma behind her.

What she finds is a large mural, perhaps the largest painting in the whole exhibition; it's a messy collage of glimpses into a world so very like and yet unlike the one Ib stands in now. Despite how unfamiliar everything is, though, it's... _Not_. In fact, Ib knows every detail portrayed upon the canvas, and even more than that, can imagine the world beyond that with more clarity than her imagination alone could ever muster. It feels as though there really is a world beyond that painted surface, and it feels as though more than just seeing it, she has lived _within_ it. For a moment, Ib feels light headed, staring unblinkingly at the artwork; a chill dances along her spine, and she tears her eyes from the mural, glancing once at the nameplate: something... Something 'World.' There's a word Ib doesn't know, but she's more than content keeping it that way.

She steps back once, twice, then spins on her heels and walks away, leaving the mural behind her and not once looking back. In fact, she does not cast any of the art she passes a single glance, briskly wandering past them and towards the exit of the exhibition. It's not that Ib finds the art to look terrible, but somehow, she feels as though she's seen enough of Guertena's art to last her a lifetime. It's all unsettlingly familiar, anyways.

That is, until she nearly passes up a painting she doesn't recognize.

Coming to a halt, the brunette girl stares at it from afar for a few seconds, then wanders closer, as though drawn to it. _This shouldn't be here_, she thinks, reaching her hand out. It's just a sleeping man, nothing special, nothing grand, but she is completely captivated by it. Before she can actually touch the painting, though, she remembers that it's just that: a painting, nothing more, nothing less. Instead, she softly traces the letters on the nameplate with her finger, a slight frown overtaking her face as she realizes what the painting is called: "Forgotten Portrait". Forgotten... _Forgotten_... The word feels unnatural, as though it was never supposed to be there- the entire painting feels that way, like a mistake that was never intended to happen. That face is supposed to be smiling, those eyes are supposed to be open, and that man is not supposed to be sleeping-

Then, Ib realizes, he's _not_ sleeping. That face will never smile or frown, those eyes that she knows are a stunning blue will never open, and that man will never wake again. _He made a sacrifice_, she thinks. _He sacrificed it all, just so he could save someone_. That someone, Ib thinks as her hand falls back to her side, is her. Well, except that, like with the mural from earlier, she doesn't think- she _knows_. Her throat tightens, and her hands curl into small fists, trembling just slightly.

"I'm sor-" she begins to tell the man who she does and doesn't know, but somehow, she can tell what he would say, how gently he would say it, and how kind his smile would be as spoke.

"Why are you apologizing? You didn't do anything wrong, Ib. Right? So don't look so down!"

With a small, almost fragile smile, Ib unfurls her fists, though the trembling doesn't stop, because she feels _guilty_. Guilty towards the man who she can only barely recall, guilty towards his existence which she cannot ascertain, and guilty towards his name that she no longer knows. There's a sudden strong desire to do something for him- just something, anything at all! No matter how she looked at it, though, nothing she could possibly do could reach him. He was paint on a canvas now, that and only that, while she was still living, still breathing, all thanks to him.

A sigh weakly escapes her lips, and Ib clasps her hands behind her back, smiling gently at the portrait. "Thank you," she breathes out, "For everything." She's aware now that something is missing from her memories, and the huge mural and this man are a large part of it. Still, though, those memories elude her, leaving her mind a mess and her feelings for this man in turmoil.

"_Ib_!" Said brunette whirls around, snapped out of her inner conflicts by the firm voice calling out to her. She recognizes it instantly as her mother, but somehow, it feels as though it's been too long since she last heard it. Turning to fully face her mother as she approached, she didn't dare move any farther away from the portrait behind her (somehow, she felt as though the man inside it would be lonely once she was gone).

"There you are! Sheesh... I was looking for you!" A hand on her hips, Ib's mother sighs, but a smile still plays on her lips. "We should look around together! We all came, after all... Ah, right! When we're done here, I'll have your father get you something to drink! Yes, let's do that!" Her mother continues to talk, and though Ib's glad to hear it, it's almost tiring at the moment, so she's somewhat glad when the talking abruptly stops.

"Hm?" Her mother moves closer, hand reaching for her hair. "Ib, dear, there's something in your hair..." Her mother's fingers rustle her hair slightly, and then withdraw, a single blue petal held between them- and Ib's crimson eyes widen. She is completely bewildered, but not because there are no real roses in the museum; no, she is bewildered because it is blue. _It should be red_, she thinks, not understanding why it should be red; she just knows that blue isn't her color. No, it's... With a jolt, she glances at the man in the portrait, thinking it's his color. Of course, though, there are no blue petals in the painting- how silly of her. What would even make her think that the petal belonged to him?

Glancing back, Ib sees her mother move to drop the petal to the floor, eyes widening as she sees this. Instantly, she squeaks out a 'no!' and reaches for it desperately. Her mother, taken off guard, blinks once before smiling sheepishly. "Ah, right," she says, an embarrassed laugh following shortly after, "It'd be rude to just leave it on the floor, wouldn't it? We should properly throw it away in a garbage can later." Allowing Ib to take the petal, she turns to walk back to her husband. For a few steps, Ib follows, petal held gingerly but firmly in her hand; soon enough, though, she stops and looks back at the portrait. Silently, she gives a small wave, tucking the petal gently into her pocket.

"Ib! Hurry up!" Her mother calls out, but Ib stays put for a moment, staring at the man who she knew wasn't really sleeping.

"Bye bye," she whispers quietly, then hurriedly walks to her mother's side; behind her, the painting shifts in a way no one notices: the corners of the man's mouth curl just the slightest bit up, and his face turns to that of one who feels at peace.

For the rest of their visit, Ib feels tired and not the least bit interested in the art around her. They're all pieces she's already seen, anyways (though she can't recollect having ever gone to look at them), and her parents are the only ones truly transfixed by the artwork. When they ask what's wrong, though, all she manages to tell them is that she's worn out for the day. They act as though they understand, and soon enough, depart from the exhibition, saying they can come back tomorrow or the next day to see all the rest. Ib just nods half-heartedly, climbing into the back of the car and relaxing into the softness of the seat. As the car starts up, she truly does feel tired and unwilling to fight to keep her eyes open.

Giving in, she closes her eyes and, for a split second, sees blue ones looking back at her behind her eyelids. They are kind eyes, gentle eyes, and most of all, they are _forgiving_ eyes, and Ib can only wish she could hold onto their warmth- because they truly are the warmest blue. With a strange desperation, the brunette girl screws her eyes shut, prolonging the feeling as long as she possibly can; for this, like so many other things, she possesses an inexplicable and strange knowledge that she almost wishes she didn't have (but in the end, she's glad for it). If she opens her eyes... It will vanish forever, that painting and that man will vanish forever-

_Garry_ will vanish forever.

There's a sudden bump in the road, her mother gasping slightly in surprise and Ib herself opening her eyes in shock. With a jolt of panic, the brunette screws her eyes shut, hoping with desperation that the warmth- _his_ warmth- will still be there.

In the darkness behind her eyelids, that warmth softly encompasses her, and Ib almost feels as though gentle arms are hugging her- but in an instant, those arms and that warmth disappear, coolly trickling away.

.

.

.

"Ib? Why are you crying?"


End file.
